While the leech broke the seals of the tablets, which the abbess had carefully closed, and began to read the contents, Horapollo asked the gardener: "And the nuns? Did they all escape?"
"Yes, Master! on the morning after we reached Doomiat, a trireme took them all out to sea."
And the old man grumbled to himself: "The working bees killed and the
Drones saved!"
Gibbus, however, contradicted him, praising the laborious and useful life of the sisters, in whose care he himself had once been.
Meanwhile Philippus had read his friend's last letter. Greatly disturbed by it he turned hither and thither, paced the room with long steps, and finally paused in front of the gardener, exclaiming: "And what next? Who is to tell them the news?"
"You," replied Gibbus, raising his hands in entreaty.
"I-oh, of course, I!" growled the physician. "Whatever is difficult, painful, intolerable, falls on my shoulders as a matter of course! But I cannot—ought not—I will not do it. Had I any part or lot in devising this mad expedition? You observe, Father?—What he, the simpleton, brewed, I—I again am to drink. Fate has settled that!"
"It is hard, it is hard, child!" replied the old man. "Still, it is your duty. Only consider—if that man, as he stands before us now, were to appear before the women. . . ."
But Philippus broke in: "No, no, that would not do! And you, Gibbus—this very day there has been an Arab again to see Joanna; and if they were to suspect that you had been with your master—for you look strangely.—No, man; your devotion merits a better reward. They shall not catch you. I release you from your service to the widow, and we—what do you say, Father?—we will keep him here."
"Right, very right," said Horapollo. "The Nile must some day rise again. Stay with us; I have long had a fancy to eat vegetables of my own growing."